No One's Here To Sleep
by an-alternate-world
Summary: When he sees the news, it takes him a few moments to register why the name repeated by the reporter seems familiar. He immediately tries calling Connor but it goes straight to voicemail. A sick sense of dread curls in his stomach as Oliver learns about the murder that will change everything.


**Title: **No One's Here To Sleep  
**Author: **an-alternate-world  
**Rating:** T  
**Characters/Pairing: **Connor Walsh/Oliver Hampton  
**Word Count:** 4,100  
**Summary:** When he sees the news, it takes him a few moments to register why the name repeated by the reporter seems familiar. He immediately tries calling Connor but it goes straight to voicemail. A sick sense of dread curls in his stomach as Oliver learns about the murder that will change everything.  
**Warnings/Spoilers:** Spoilers for 1x12 and what takes place in that episode.  
**Disclaimer:** I am in no way associated with _How To Get Away With Murder_, ABC, Peter Nowalk, Shonda Rhimes, or anything else related to the ABC universe.

* * *

When he sees the news, it takes him a few moments to register why the name repeated by the reporter seems familiar. He was immersed in a book, his head awash with words and descriptions of counter-espionage tactics to ensure he stays on top of doing all the wrong things without running the risk of getting caught, when the news broke across his screen. Now that he's been dragged from the book, he blinks a few times, his brows furrowing as he searches his brain for why that name is familiar – when he hears the name '_Annalise Keating_' and the lightbulb that flashes in his brain is so blinding that he drops the book.

It lands with a _thwap_ on the rug beneath the couch, his stare glued to the news as he listens to the description of a body found in multiple garbage bags and then burned beyond recognition. Even by Oliver's minimal understanding of how the evidence process works, he doesn't think there's much to go on but there are alarm bells ringing in his ears that make him take off his glasses and rub at his eyes to steady himself.

He immediately tries calling Connor but it goes straight to voicemail. He sends a text, urging Connor to call him back. He's worried about Connor's mental stability more than anything else. There'd been a strain in Connor's expression for weeks now and as far as Oliver could tell, his sanity had been hanging by a tattered thread. If Oliver wakes to the news that Connor has overdosed because his boss' husband has been murdered…

He doesn't want to finish the thought.

Instead, he tries calling Connor again as panic flutters in his chest. There's still no answer.

He spends most of the night pacing around his apartment, completely unable to sleep because his mind is racing and his hands are twitching. He periodically calls Connor's number and grows increasingly frustrated when it remains switched off. Who is Connor trying to avoid? His sister? His friends? The police? _Oliver_?

Some of his fear gives way to fury and determination, a teeth-gritting indignation to demand answers from Connor one way or another. He can't be the only person Connor trusts right now and then the man switches off his phone. He can't be the only person Connor comes to in a panic and then he disappears when Oliver starts stressing out. He can't try to keep Connor safe from himself, keep him clean from drugs that Connor won't even talk about taking, and then Connor goes off the grid doing God knows what for far too long. He feels sick with worry that Connor is about to be inadvertently wrapped up in a murder case affecting his boss and it will send him off the deep end and-

He still can't think about it. He still won't let himself.

It's almost a relief when the golden fingers of the sun start creeping through the curtains. It's still early but he showers and pulls on a t-shirt and shorts with the intention of going for a run. Maybe Connor is running away from him. Maybe they're on the precipice of something he doesn't fully understand. Maybe he should be running away from what's about to happen too.

* * *

There's a knock on his door four days later and he knows from how timid it is that it's Connor. Four days of stressing out, of calling and leaving messages, of texting and receiving silence, have steeled his resolve to hit Connor in the arm or the stomach or the face. He's been glued to the television and the internet, reading anything he can find about the case from his distant vantage point. He's learned that the body was not only burned but there were carpet fibres embedded in the burned flesh as well as foliage from a wooded area. Despite his ravenous appetite for information, it still feels like there are crucial pieces missing of a giant jigsaw puzzle.

The most obvious pieces seem to have formed the outline of Connor's presence in his life.

He throws open the door without checking the peep hole, his jaw clenched in anger that Connor has _finally_ crawled out of wherever he's been hiding – and if he'd spent the past few days drunk or high then he'll-

And then his gaze actually focuses on Connor.

Connor manages to look both ten years older and ten years younger. There are dark circles under his eyes, eyes that are trained on the floor but speak of terrible sights which have made it impossible to sleep. His lower lip is trembling so badly that his teeth keep snatching at it in an attempt to hold it still. There's something peculiar about the haunted look in Connor's eyes mingled with the vulnerability etched into his expression. He's never seen Connor appear so uncertain, so haphazardly put together. As much as he wants to remain angry, Oliver can feel some of it melt into concern.

"Hi," he says, still holding onto the door as he observes Connor fidgeting on his doorstep. Connor isn't a man he recognises anymore. There haven't sly grins and bright eyes and confident hands in _weeks_. Connor had always struck him as someone who knew what he wanted and chased after it until it was captured. Connor was someone who knew what he wanted in bed and was more than comfortable to demand it.

Instead of that man is this one on his doorstep, the broken shell of someone who is sinking into a place beyond saving. They haven't had sex since Connor abruptly re-entered his life, although they had shared a bed a few times. Oliver hadn't missed the way Connor seemed to shy away from Oliver's hands on his skin, the lack of Connor's hands on his waist when Oliver had rushed him for a desperate kiss two weeks ago. There'd been a momentary flash of something that looked like fear before Connor's back had collided with the wall and since then, Oliver's mind has been repeating the kiss on an almost endless loop. He's no longer convinced that Connor had actually kissed him back and he's spent the past few sleepless nights trying to figure out why Connor had been so afraid of being sent away when it had been _Oliver_ who hadn't been able to restrain himself.

It just makes it clearer and clearer that Connor isn't the same man who picked him up in a bar and made him feel like he was worth something months ago. He wonders when that happened. He wonders how that happened. He wonders _why_ that happened.

"I…" Connor hesitates, his fingers fiddling with the ends of his sleeves pulled down to cover most of his hands. Oliver frowns at the anxious gesture, something else which is startlingly new and equally concerning. "I'm sorry, Oliver."

Oliver sighs, his heart warring with his head on the right decision to make. He _wants_ to remain annoyed but it's difficult when Connor looks so damaged. "You can't just say that and expect it will fix things every time."

"I know." Connor glances up and Oliver catches the faint redness in his eyes. Has Connor been crying or is he coming down from taking something? He's not sure which option he'd prefer. Connor in tears betrays an even bigger issue than he wants to handle. "The police are watching us, Oliver. They're watching the calls we make. They're watching who we talk to. I didn't want them using my phone to trace you and then discover the things you'd done to…help us with cases which meant _you_ then got into trouble."

It takes Oliver a moment to realise that, in some twisted way, Connor had thought he was being _protective_. Oliver could have taken care of himself if the worst happened – it was both something he was prepared for and something he was pretty sure wouldn't happen because he was a good hacker who covered his digital ass – but Connor had cared enough about avoiding any hint of an arrest by going off the grid for a few days. It's a sign Connor actually cares about him and he can't stay angry with Connor because of it.

He deflates and stands aside, allowing Connor to shuffle into his apartment and toe his shoes off. Everything about his stance makes him look small and vulnerable: the hunched shoulders, the fingers tugging at the ends of his sleeves, the bowed head, the lowered eyes. Oliver closes the door and slides the lock into place, wanting to wrap his arms around Connor body but not trusting the other man's possible desire to flee. Connor's skittishness during the past few weeks has made him impossible to read and appropriately comfort.

"Have you eaten?" he says as he walks past Connor towards the kitchen. He should have some leftover pasta tucked away at the back of the fridge. There'll be some chicken from last night. He never knew when to expect Connor showing up so he's developed a tendency for overcooking just in case.

"I'm not really hungry," Connor says, quiet and uncertain. Oliver looks over his shoulder to see Connor lingering near the couch like he doesn't know what he's meant to do, like he doesn't know why he's here. Oliver's pretty sure another piece of his heart fragments at the thought that Connor doesn't actually _want_ to be here but he felt…obligated to show up or something.

"Do you want to watch something?" He grasps around for anything to guide an attempt at a conversation because Connor's giving him nothing to work and it starts to make worry itch across his shoulders. Has Connor used again? Is that why he's so afraid to meet Oliver's eyes?

Connor shakes his head, the edge of his mouth quirking as he wavers with the words he must want to say. Oliver waits as patiently as he can, his hand touching the kitchen counter in an attempt to keep himself steady and upright. He can see Connor swallowing the words. He can see Connor biting and chewing on anxiety but he can't seem to get rid of it. He remembers when Connor had last looked like this – when Connor had admitted to being high and Oliver had been struck dumb, unable to think or feel anything other than betrayal. He attempts to prepare himself for the fact that Connor has used again and is going to adm-

"Can you hold me for a while?" Connor finally blurts out, the darkness of his eyes raising for a split second before he's staring at the floor again, seemingly ashamed of his request for reasons Oliver can't begin to imagine. He's _never_ heard Connor request to be held. He's never seen Connor expose the fractures of his inner soul so freely.

He steps towards Connor, his fingertips grazing the other man's wrist to draw him towards the couch. He lays down first, a pillow beneath his head and another against his chest, and tugs Connor towards him. Connor folds himself into the gaps of Oliver's legs, his arms settling beside Oliver's hips, his head resting against the pillow. It's not the most spacious couch so it isn't the most comfortable of positions, but Connor releases a shaky exhale when Oliver's fingers curve around the back of his neck and he gives himself a small mental congratulations for managing to do something Connor seems to be enjoying.

He massages some of the tension from Connor's neck and shoulders, listening to Connor's eerily steady breathing broken by the occasional hitch and cataloguing the faint tremble he can feel from Connor's arms against him. He's never seen Connor so quiet, so unsure in his own skin that he shuts down like this. Usually Connor oozes enough charm that Oliver's half-hard before they even kiss. He'd learned Connor's words were foreplay just as much as his confident touches, making his blood run hot with desire before Connor would drag at his skin.

But this Connor… This Connor is increasingly a stranger to him, spinning away regardless of how much he tries to hold on.

"Talk to me?" he asks, but it's as much a plea as a question. They've been doing this dance for weeks, a dance where he pushes closer whenever Connor pulls away, a dance where he tries to hold on to something as slippery as sand. He doesn't want to overstep and tread on Connor's toes but he doesn't want to let Connor escape him again either. He needs answers. He _needs_ to understand.

Connor's head shifts against the pillow until their eyes meet. Oliver feels his chest seize with how troubled Connor looks and he doesn't understand why, he doesn't understand what's happened. He wishes he did but Connor's always held so many mysteries close to his chest and Oliver has never had a chance to sneak a peek.

"Have you ever made a mistake so profound that you're not sure you could ever fix it?"

Oliver knows Connor well enough to see the subtext in the words – he's not _really_ asking Oliver about a mistake he might have made. He's admitting fault to something enormous and Oliver can only pray that it's nothing to do with taking drugs again. Maybe it's an attempt at an apology for sleeping with that other guy for information?

He's still muddling over Connor's words when the other man moves. At first, he thinks Connor is retreating again, closing in on himself after briefly revealing an insecurity Oliver doesn't understand. He grabs at Connor's upper arm instinctively, half-sitting in an attempt to keep Connor close rather than losing him. Connor stills, his eyes fixed on the pillow that has slipped to Oliver's stomach for several laboured breaths before he looks up and his gaze lingers on Oliver's lips.

He doesn't push Connor away when he inches closer, doesn't put a hand on Connor's chest to stop his advance. He might stop breathing for a few seconds though, more lightheaded and dizzy than the first time Connor had leaned in to kiss him, his heart almost certainly beating faster than the first time Connor had checked him out.

Connor hesitates when his mouth is close enough that Oliver can smell the hint of coffee on his breath. He'll probably hate himself later for closing the distance, coaxing Connor's lips to move against his when he presses insistent kisses against a mouth that used to control every blistering hot sexual encounter they had. Connor's mouth opens but fails to really respond. Oliver tries the move he knows Connor likes the most – nipping his lower lip before smoothing over the flesh with his tongue.

He feels Connor's shoulders shake as he releases a breath and he tentatively touches the tip of his tongue against Oliver's. He'd smile if he could, drawing Connor towards him as he relaxes into the couch again. His fingers curl into the hair at the nape of Connor's neck, urging a response which feels anything but natural as Connor's lips barely shift. When it becomes clear that Connor had wanted to kiss but didn't want to respond, he stops. His heart thumps in his chest as he opens his eyes to see Connor above him, his brows furrowed in concentration or anxiety but the rest of his expression distant.

"Connor…" he whispers, cradling Connor's jaw and rubbing a thumb against the other man's ear. It's one of the few times he's truly felt scared for the man in his arms, completely lost as to what to do that would be comforting or helpful. Every time he thinks he's peeled back a layer of Connor's armour, he realises he has fewer answers than ever before.

Connor tears himself away and it physically _hurts_ to have Connor climb off him. He panics for a moment when he thinks Connor is going to leave but then Connor turns on the spot and walks back again and he realises the other man is pacing, his shoulders hunching and his hands tucked under his armpits.

"All I've done for the past six months is just…make mistakes," Connor mumbles, shaking his head slightly back and forth. Oliver sits up slowly, his eyes following every move Connor makes which increasingly gives him the appearance of a caged animal. "Is that all I'm going to keep doing? Screwing up and hurting people?"

The words hit him with startling clarity, as sudden as a bolt of lightning. Connor's words stir memories he hasn't been able to shake and he realises as he watches Connor walk back and forth that he's seen this sort of unhinged rambling before, a demeanour wracked with fear and a posture full of anxiety.

His eyes drift past Connor for a moment to the television and a giant piece of the puzzle slots into place, one so horrific he can barely comprehend it.

"You're involved, aren't you?" His words interrupt Connor's mumbling and pacing and he's on his feet before he's completely thought through the decision to move. "In Sam Keating's murder? You're involved."

Connor's steps falter and he looks at Oliver with such unabashed terror that he doesn't need it said aloud to have his suspicions confirmed.

He staggers a little, his knees unwilling to support the weight of his realisation. He's both winded and speechless, and he wonders how many other lies Connor has told him. He immediately doubts that that night, _that night_, Connor had been _high_. It makes far more sense that Connor had been _terrified_ after killing someone. He doubts whether Connor has ever abused drugs. It was probably just a convenient excuse because he couldn't tell the truth. Oliver realises now that the smoky smell had been the result of _burning_ a_ body_ and he'd been panicking about screwing up because he had done something so unfathomable that Oliver can't even think straight.

"Oliver-"

He thrusts his hand wildly in Connor's direction and the other man falls silent. He grips at the couch and stumbles to put distance between them, faintly afraid for his life. For _weeks_, he's been holding Connor close in an effort to keep him clean – but he hadn't needed to do that at all, had he? Connor wasn't an _addict_. Connor wouldn't be able to do all that he had done to make it to law school if he had a pill problem.

Connor isn't an addict.

He's just involved in a murder.

"I didn't kill him," Connor says, despite Oliver's unwillingness to hear the words. Connor sounds shattered and scared, his voice tiny and desperate in the silence as Oliver struggles with the scenarios which fill his head. "I _didn't_, I promise. He was trying to kill Rebecca and Wes- We just helped dispose of the body but-"

"_Jesus_, Connor!" he shouts, ending the torrent of words that he can't process. It's like realising Connor's involvement has removed the gag that has had them moving around each other for so long. Now, he sees Connor for who he really is and he shakes with more emotions than he can name. He's reminded again that he doesn't know this man anymore. Maybe he never knew him. Maybe everything was built on lies

"Please don't kick me out again," Connor pleads with a crack in the middle of the sentence. His eyes turn shiny and red with tears, his shoulders hunching higher. "Please, Oliver. I don't know what to-"

"You're an accessory!" He doesn't know as much about law as Connor but that doesn't mean he's never seen an episode of _Law &amp; Order_ in his life. He knows Connor is just as culpable as anyone involved that night. Judging from the plurals Connor had used before, he has suspicions that he knows _exactly_ who else was involved that night and he doesn't want to end up screwed in the process of protecting Annalise Keating's youngest pets. "You aided in the disposal of a murder victim, Connor! You can't pretend that didn't-"

"You think I don't know that?" Connor says, his pitch rising alongside his hysteria, blotches of pink appearing high in his cheeks and near his eyes which betrays that he's on the edge of falling apart. "You think I don't have nightmares every night about what I did? You think I don't close my eyes and see Sam's dead gaze staring back at me? You think I don't walk into Annalise's house and remember what happened?"

Oliver thinks about the report on the news five days ago and the dismembered, burned body that Connor was involved with disposing. He thinks about the dark shadows beneath Connor's eyes, a testament to the restless sleep Connor has been enduring for weeks. The increased darkness is probably because Connor hasn't slept in days, too terrified that the police were going to knock down his door. He thinks about all the theories spouted by news presenters about who killed Sam Keating. He thinks about the search of Annalise Keating's house that had been on the news but the reporter had said nothing had been found. He thinks about how there's been no hard evidence connecting anyone with the murder.

And here Connor stands, hurling all the facts at him that he's spent days searching for.

It doesn't feel real.

It doesn't seem believable.

"I'm so- I'm so fucking _scared_," Connor admits, his volume reducing to nothing as he wraps his arms across his stomach. Oliver supposes it's an attempt to hold himself together, because it's pretty damn clear that Connor is falling apart in front of him.

And Oliver hates himself a little for how confused he feels by his need to pull away from Connor and comfort Connor. He's sickened by the fact that Connor's involved in a murder, in disposing of a body. He's horrified by the fact Connor has been worrying about this for weeks and he'd had no idea it was a burden the other man had been carrying. He's terrified seeing Connor's sanity finally fray into nonexistence. He's devastated when Connor's knees give out and he sinks to the floor, his breathing stuttered and his hands grabbing at his hair, and all Oliver can do is instinctively react by kneeling in front of Connor and trying to calm him down.

It takes him a while to pull Connor's hands from his face, winding their fingers together as Connor disintegrates into a panic attack on the floor of his living room. It's something he's seen before – like _that_ night which makes far more sense now. It's like the times that Connor has woken with a scream that has stopped Oliver's heart when he realises Connor is breathing hard and barely responsive to his attempts at communication.

He cups Connor's cheek, raising his head until their eyes meet. He can tell Connor is somewhere else because the expression on his face is wild and he presses a quick kiss to Connor's forehead as he draws the other man against him.

"Breathe for me, Connor," he says, aiming to keep his voice steady and controlled. He holds Connor's hands against his chest in the hopes that the rise and fall will register and Connor will regulate his breathing. "I'm here, Connor. Focus on breathing."

Connor's snatched breaths sound almost wheezy. The cheek that Oliver isn't holding is pale and he can tell Connor's skin is cool and clammy. He tugs Connor towards him, folding the man somewhat awkwardly into his lap. He alternates between rocking Connor back and forth and hushing him with encouraging words about it being okay and begging Connor to breathe.

He's not sure how long he sits there with Connor cradled against him. He _does_ know that the pain which has crept into his stiff muscles is nothing compared to the exhaustion that has taken over Connor's body after the panic finishes ravaging him. He can see the tiredness in the slack skin around Connor's mouth, the way his eyelids lapse shut and then flutter open again, the limp hands folded against Oliver's chest, the floppiness of his body that doesn't protest Oliver manoeuvring it so he's more comfortable.

"Please don't kick me out again," Connor pleads in a whisper and Oliver sighs, pressing a lingering kiss to Connor's forehead and inhaling deeply to centre himself.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promises.

He just hopes he isn't making a horrible mistake trying to keep Connor safe from other people, from the police and, most importantly, from himself.

* * *

_**~FIN~**_


End file.
